It had been eight long years since Frank and Darla had traveled down that road. Much had changed, but only the insignificant things really, the truly significant things had somewhat faded from their memory. The majestic red mountains ascending into the clouds from the heavy high desert vegetation seemed more breathtaking than they remembered.
“The pictures just don’t do it justice, do they?” Frank mumbled to his wife. “Uh-uhh,” Darla agreed softly. Frank, the writer, had got within about fifteen miles of the haven several times driving by on the interstate while on business, but didn’t give much thought to the place or the memories he and his wife had made there.
Frank and Darla managed to get a few days away from the hustle and bustle of the city to celebrate their anniversary. No computers, limited cell phone use while they remembered what was fading into a distancing past. They sat above the cottonwood and boulder flanked creek sipping hot coffee in the afternoon mist. They chatted about the memory of the last time they’d visited the enchanted setting. They listened at ease to the sound of the distant creek rushing around and over the boulders that created the rapids coming from the creek. The also watched and listened to the birds in and around the natural setting of life.
The afternoon thunder showers wrapped up the early afternoon matinee and ushered in the sun’s light show dancing through the lingering clouds, bathing the mountain walls in magical light. Frank and Darla made their way down the rocky canyon to get a close up of the creek right before sunset.
The sparkling light struggled to reach the red soil on the damp banks of the creek through the heavy tree line. The close up of the meandering creek revealed the wild life that call that place home. The ducks were beginning to settle in for an early night.
The couple enjoyed the Johnny come lately ducks, flying in from downstream, landing elegantly in front of them as they watched from a spot hidden by bushes and branches. A little squirrel showed up and approached Darla looking for a handout. He, like the sunset, put on a spectacular show for them.
Frank quickly gave the little guy the nickname, Seymour, as the cute little rodent danced around and up a nearby tree trunk. Darla tried to give him a strawberry… Seymour didn’t appreciate the tip and left it behind in search of some nuts.
The simple beauty of life passes us by as we speed by on the interstate of life, not taking the time to enjoy God’s beauty along the way. The realization crept over Frank as the setting inspired his writing that had gone stale…
The memory of memories that fueled the great writer’s imaginations had long since escaped Frank. He’d forgotten the essence of pure writing, he’d traded good writing from within for clever writing from the outside in. It just took real living to remind him of that fact…
The best things rarely come from the brain… The best things come from the soul…even when you’re too busy to be inspired.
(Names have been changed to protect the not so innocent…)